


Mistakes

by genop0ke



Series: Friday Drabbles [5]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: ? - Freeform, Body Horror, Infected AU, M/M, alcohol mention, this is kinda gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 18:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6917677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genop0ke/pseuds/genop0ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BOY HAS IT BEEN A WHILE SINCE I WROTE SOMETHING ON A FRIDAY. </p>
<p>This is a bit of a tweak of the old Infected drabble, based on a RP scenario that was kind of cute. Oop. Yes, it involves a ship. No, I'm not telling which. :3c</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistakes

It's six a.m.. Many people are asleep, but not one man in particular. Tord Larsen hasn't slept a wink, and for good reason. 

Burns don't turn black. Wounds from getting stabbed in the side with a harpoon don't heal rapidly and turn black. Something is very, very wrong. He's been up all night, trying to plan out something important. Revenge. He knows exactly why this is happening to him. The reason is Tom Redwood.

And he's out for blood.

“Sir, don’t you think this is a risky move to take? You only just recently suffered from those wounds, as in, it was literally yesterday--”

Tord snaps at the other, his words coming out as a fierce snarl. “What you’re calling “yesterday” is still “today” for me. It’s not going to BE “yesterday” until I sleep, which I’m not doing until I get this done with. I feel fine. I’m doing this NOW.”

One of his underlings, a thick-browed soldier named Paul Vore, happens to be the one confronting the agitated Norsk man at the moment. He shrinks away, startled at the force used by his superior. What crawled up HIS ass and died? “Sir-”

“Don’t you “sir” me. Kindly fuck off and let me get back to my work.” 

“You haven’t slept at all since we recovered you from the crash site.”

“So? This is important.” Tord waves the man off, going back to messily scribbling down notes in messily written Norwegian. None of the soldiers he allows around him know enough of his native tongue to understand what he’s writing, but that’s in the case they’re able to decipher the horrendous chicken scratch he’s using. 

Paul sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He turns around and leaves the room, nodding reluctantly. “As you wish, sir.” 

One hour passes. Another. Several. You’d think he would have passed out by now, but this man is no stranger to staying up upwards of twenty-four hours straight. His mood is only getting worse each passing minute, gaining more volatility and ill will. He’s not making any real progress, only going over one single plan over and over, trying to obsessively perfect it. It’s not even that complex.

Step one. Find where Tom currently resides. Knowing him, he’s already found somewhere to stay. Step two. Invite yourself in. Step three. Revenge. 

It’s not the best plan, nor the most legal, but he’s irresponsibly PISSED at what’s happened all because of his own mistakes and a blasted harpoon. He wasn’t intending on hurting anyone, but then panic caused invasive thoughts to possess him, a power trip keeping the stupidity going. And then that harpoon. The exclamation of him and someone he really did consider a friend no longer being friends. 

They’re not friends anymore, all right. Tord won’t even give him a chance to reconcile. 

….if he even has the guts to continue what he’s doing. 

* * *

The time is 12:00 PM. Tord approaches the door of an apartment complex, hood over his head, gauze loosely wrapped around his right arm, lower abdomen, and the side of his face. The infection doesn’t hurt, doesn’t feel like anything bad, but it’s spreading. Might as well hide his weakness.

He walks inside, goes up a staircase, and comes across a hallway. Three doors. There’s labels on the doors saying who is in which, but his vision is failing him at the moment. It’s so blurry. That’s not normal. He shakes it off and opens the nearest door, assuming the apartment belongs to Tom. 

“...hey. Jehovah. I know you’re in here. Come on out.” Tord snarls, the sleep deprivation and borderline delusion reflecting clearly in his voice. 

A voice responds. But not the one he was expecting. “...Tord? You came back?” A ginger with a faint bruise around his right eye and a violet pullover walks into the room from another, eyes wide. Matt. Not Tom. Damn it. 

“...faen, now I have to check the nex--”

“What happened? I saw that robot crash… are you alright?”

Why does he care? He punched him in the face. He nearly killed him and his friends. Why does Matt care? Is his memory that bad? Is he that stupid? “Why does it matter? I wasn’t looking for you. I was looking for Tom.”

The other still presses at the question, more firmly this time. “Are you alright?”

“No. Of course not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, princess-” Unwanted hands grip at his shoulders, making him stiffen and try to back away. 

Matt tries to look him in the eyes. Eye. Only one is uncovered. “What happened?”

“I got caught in an explosion and you want to know what happened.”

“This is serious!”

“You know what’s also serious? You letting me go and find Tom.”

“Judging from how you’re acting, I don’t think that’s the best idea.” 

Tord reluctantly sighs, relaxing slightly. “...what, are you going to make me stay here?”

“What I should do is call 999.” Matt retorts, looking over the other. “I spy bandages. Take off the jumper.” 

Grumbling, the wounded man steps away, folding his arms stiffly across his chest and narrowing his good eye. “Why should I?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll take it off for you.” 

“...ugh, fine.” Rolling his eyes, Tord grabs onto the back of his red pullover and pulls, quickly easing it off. His shirt rides up with it, leaving him awkwardly attempting to roll it back down. Matt gasps, looking him over. “What? Am I dying, doctor?” 

Not appreciating the jesting tone, Matt huffs, furrowing his brows at Tord. “I’m mostly surprised you’re not that burnt, but… what’s with the black..?” 

Tord gasps and looks down. Indeed, the odd black is spreading past where he has the gauze on his body. He panics, ripping all of it off. His entire right side is stained with a sickly, sleek black color, a few spike-looking, small masses beginning to come off of his shoulder, elbow, and back. He feels at his face, and there’s similar protrusions on his jawline, and his ear feels a bit pointy. 

“...herregud, what’s… what’s going on…?”

“That-that’s what I want to know! What happened to you?!” Matt sounds as panicky as Tord feels. 

Tord looks at his hand. Claws seem to be developing from his nails. He looks like a monster, doesn’t he? It’s not too hard for him to figure out why. Did Tom bleed on that harpoon? Some of his DNA could have been on the tip, from that. That’ll definitely teach Tord to play with people’s genetics without their consent. 

His mind flashes back to a time a handful of years ago. Tord had whisked the man away while catching him on the curb of a road, too intoxicated to question why a man he hadn’t seen in years now requested to drive him home. Of course, he complied, his mind too blurred by various liquors to be suspicious. He got him comfortable, helped him through the heavier parts of heavy drunkenness, even tried not to mind a few spots of bile splattering onto his shoes if dear Thomas couldn’t make it to something to throw up into. After all of that subsided, what he really came for began.

A cloth was tied over the man’s ‘eyes’, a rag soaked with chloroform pressed to his face until consciousness slipped away. Tord shuffled around to jog his memory and probed behind a couple framed photographs on the walls before pulling a lever, revealing a lab-like secret room. He closed up the wall behind him and grabbed a couple vials from a small case.

“…there we go. Shame I have to test this on an old friend, eh?” He mused to himself, emptying the small vial into a syringe and plunging the needle into one of Tom’s veins. He writhed around in unconscious agony for a few moments, and surprisingly… nothing really happened.

Of course, something DID happen a few months later during an incident involving superpowers, but that’s not important.

What’s important is that the results of that haphazardly test is now mixing with Tord’s own. Not good.

“I’ll.. I’ll be alright, alright? I’ll be fine. Just-- just let me… let…” What’s going on? His already blurry vision is getting worse. Getting darker. Without another word, unconsciousness grabs a firm hold on Tord’s body, making him heavily topple to the floor, fainted. 

* * *

It feels like only seconds have passed. Judging from the dull, warm light filtering in through curtains, it’s been hours. He feels sore and heavy. Matt is anxiously pacing back and forth in front of him, looking unnerved. Tord raises his head slightly, looking at himself. He’s been awkwardly pushed onto the couch, his pullover and a thin blanket put over his body. Perhaps Matt tried to help but couldn’t figure out what to do.

Figures. “Classic stupid Matt”, right? Nah, doesn’t have a good ring to it. He slowly tries to sit up. It’s hard. “...guh… Matt..?”

“--oh, thank god, you woke up. About time! It’s been… it’s been… a pretty good amount of hours. I tried getting help, but when they got here, they thought I had some kind of animal, recommended a vet, left…” Matt talks quickly, looking relieved. 

“...some kind of animal? Are they blind, Matthew? I’m fine.”

Heavily sighing, the ginger shakes his head. “No, you’re not. I’m terrified, honestly, of what’s going on with you. Do you want to see what I mean?” 

“I guess. You have a mirror, don’t you? Wouldn’t be surprised if you have one or ten.”

“Very funny. Let me get one.” Grumbling quietly, Matt steps out of the room, quickly returning with the bathroom mirror in hand. He holds it out in front of the couch-ridden Norwegian, bracing himself for what comes next. 

Tord cries out, nearly falling off the couch with how he practically scrambles away from his own reflection. That can’t be him. His body is completely a dark, almost black color, spiky tufts of what looks like prickly fur or something on various parts of his body. His teeth are sharpened into fangs, slit pupils being the only visible things in milky white eyes. Long ears, like an elf’s or something, are noticeable on the sides of his head. 

His breathing becomes rapid, clawed hands raking at his scalp. “I-- I-I’m just having a bad dream, right..?! The-- the mirror just.. Isn’t working right…” In his panic, he tries to snatch the mirror away. Upon getting ahold of it, he throws it away from him. It impacts the floor, a faint cracking noise signalling the glass being damaged by the force used. 

“...Tord, Tord, come on, calm down… I’m sorry, but you’re not dreaming. The mirror was showing the right thing. You really do look like that. But it’s… it’s okay.” Matt hesitantly inches close to the other, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. The prickly spikes soften at his touch. 

After some time, Tord’s breathing slows, and he comes to terms with what’s going on with himself. “I… I guess I’ll have to get used to this.” He leans slightly into the touch, a shaky hand pulling Matt’s arm closer. 

“What are you doing?”

“I need comfort. Comfort me.”

“Pushy, aren’t you?” Matt chuckles, a faint smile coming onto his face for the first time that evening. He awkwardly sits on the edge of the couch, leaning on Tord. A heavy sigh pushes through his nose and mouth, a hand moving to gently rustle the Norwegian’s hair.

Tord shrugs. “I guess, yeah.” He rests his head on Matt’s shoulder, closing his eyes a little. “This is… this is nice. I needed this. Do you mind me staying here for a while? Until I’m… more accustomed to this?”

“No, not at all!” 

“Thank you.”


End file.
